The Wallpaper Chase

By Lucie Williams

After three break-ins, New York gallery owner Alex acquires a dachshund – and a mystery; why is someone after Swiss artist Denise Kübler’s artwork? When she is assaulted and threatened by the thieves, she decides to flee to Switzerland, to solve the riddle and save her life.
In Geneva she realizes that one of the murdered artist’s paintings may contain a valuable document, relating to the death of immensely wealthy Alice de Brousse. She crosses the paths of Etienne, the old lady’s charming nephew and frustrated heir. And of darkly charismatic Damien, founder and leader of the FLC, the charitable foundation which inherited her fortune.
Despite several attempts on her life, Alex doggedly continues her quest, retracing the last months of Alice de Brousse’s life. In the process, she discovers it’s not always to tell friend from foe, and finds solace in her smart dog’s unconditional love.
And when she finally discovers the truth, Alex and her newfound ally have to run for their lives through picture postcard scenery, counting, more than ever, on Dulce the dachshund’s unerring instinct to get them out of sticky situations and help them right a wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucie Williams
• Release date: Oct 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301359202

Lucie Williams

Lucie Williams is the proud owner of her fourth long haired dachshund: it was the third one, who passed away in 2012, who inspired her to write the "Doxie Detective" series. She lives in Switzerland, but travels often to her two favorite places, New York City and Greece.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

After the third break-in I decided I needed a dog or an alarm system. Or both. Since the alarm system was just a question of walking down to the hardware store on Lexington Avenue, I decided to begin with that. But there was one unpleasant task to be completed before this: I had to call Denise Kübler, the Swiss artist, to inform her that her artworks had been stolen. Edouard, her long suffering husband, answered the phone on the third ring. It surprised me, since Denise usually grabbed the phone before him. He recognized me immediately and exclaimed: Alexandra! Oh my dear, I haven’t been able to call you to tell you the news yet, I’m so sorry. Denise is dead.

I was so shocked that I was silent for a full minute. I couldn’t believe, Denise, the frail, cotton-candy haired artist, whom I had nicknamed Attila, was dead. There was a small cough at the other end of the line and Edouard added: She was killed during a break-in at our house, two weeks ago. I’m sorry to have to announce it to you so…brutally…Alexandra.

Still in shock, I said a few words of condolence and promised to call him again very soon.

I walked distractedly out of the gallery and locked the door. While I strolled down Lexington Avenue, I thought about Denise. A mutual friend had shown me her work and I had liked it and offered to organize an exhibition at the gallery. I still liked the work, but in the few months I’d known Denise, I’d come to think of her as Attila. What had looked at first like a sweet-faced, frail old lady, with cotton candy hair and tortoise-rimmed spectacles, was, in fact, a terror. When we organized her show, she had managed to antagonize everyone: the photographer, the framer, the poster designer, the printer…She had made everybody so furious, it was a miracle we had managed to organize the exhibition. The printer’s wife had definitely been heard to mutter dark threats. So I could very well imagine Denise confronting a burglar and making him so angry that he bashed in her head. Still, it was sad news, and I wondered how Edouard would cope. He was a charming man and a brilliant scholar, but he was in the first stages of Parkinson’s disease and Denise, albeit roughly and without much consideration for his feelings, had been taking care of him. Still, I seemed to remember they had two adult children, who would hopefully deal with the problem.

I tried to dismiss Denise’s tragic death from my mind and to concentrate on more mundane things, such as the alarm system, which was sorely needed. I still found it difficult to understand why anyone would want to burglarize my small art gallery, and what’s more, two days in a row. Most of the artworks I sell at Tate have price tags below the thousand dollar mark. But then, New York is New York, and they’ll steal anything that’s not nailed down…

The hardware store was pretty full when I arrived. I managed to get one of the salesmen to advise me on what to buy and went to the cash register. I was waiting to pay for my purchase, when there was a small scuffle in front of me. There had been two people before me; a man who had finished paying and was getting his stuff bagged, and a young man who’d been waiting patiently in line and politely stepped back to let the man go by in the cramped space. Suddenly a woman came up from behind us, pushed ahead of the young man, slapped her purchases down on the counter and took out her wallet. The young man was so surprised his jaw dropped. He then took a step forward and told the woman, in a conciliatory tone: Excuse me, madam, but I was before you? She took one quick look at him, and said scathingly: There was no one here, so why don’t you wait like everyone else and leave a pregnant woman alone!

Now, I have –like most people, I guess- a few pet peeves. Injustice is the major one, which very often gets me in trouble. Pregnant women who think the world owes them something happen to be another one. Especially pregnant women who are as flat as a flounder. The young man was speechless: my blood boiled.

I took two steps forward and taking the rolls of masking tape from the young man’s hand, put them on the counter in front of the cashier, saying: Please ring these up: this young man has waited long enough.

There was a howl of rage beside me, as the woman yelled: Just who do you think you are? How dare you butt in? No one asked for your opinion, lady! What do you think you’re doing, passing in front of a pregnant woman!

I was getting a bit fed up of her antics, so I turned around to face her and said, in a quiet voice: First of all, I don’t see what your pregnancy has to do with the issue, unless you think either this young man or I are responsible for your state… She gasped and the cashier and two clients who had been standing nearby giggled, Secondly, unless you plaster a sign on your forehead no-one can guess you’re pregnant, thirdly your state is no excuse for rudeness and bad education, and fourthly, this young man was first, I was after him, so you will get your turn after me.

I turned my back on her, as she sputtered and threatened and hurled a string of insults at me, which I studiously ignored. The young man had paid and was leaving and I put my alarm system on the counter. There was a movement next to me as the woman tried to push her purchases in front. The cashier took one look at me and rang up my alarm box, grabbed the cash and hurriedly finished bagging my box.

I left the shop mumbling to myself: why did I always get myself into unpleasant situations?

On my way back to the gallery, carrying my purchase in a bag, I saw a patrol car parked in front of the building. My heart missed a beat: had there been another break-in at the gallery? In broad daylight?

I checked the gallery door, which was mercifully intact. Still, they probably wanted to talk to me, so, seeing the two policemen going into the lobby of the building, I followed them. They went up the stairs leading to the second floor: obviously they had the address wrong. I went after them calling out: Excuse me, sir?

The police officer closest to me turned around: Yes? I walked up a few more steps until I was on the landing. I had dragged my (pleasantly) plump frame down to the hardware store and back through a warm June afternoon. Going up one floor had taken the last of my breath and I gasped: Are you looking for me? He asked politely:

And you are?

I’m Alexandra Tate: I own Tate, the gallery downstairs. Aren’t you here about yesterday’s break-in?

The police officer shook his head: No, miss, I’m sorry: we’re here about today’s break-in. He indicated one of the two doors on the landing, which stood open, its lock obviously broken.

There was some furious barking inside the apartment. I saw Mrs. Herz, from 2B, in Mrs. Dettwiler’s flat, talking to the other officer. I asked anxiously: Is Mrs. Dettwiler alright? The cop looked at me compassionately: I’m afraid not, miss. She was attacked and has a pretty bad concussion: the ambulance just left. I bit my lip: Oh no, poor lady! Is she going to be ok? The policeman just shrugged and started to go back inside the apartment.

There was a clatter of heels up the stairs from the lobby and the police officer and I both turned to look at the new arrival. A tall, thin woman with an angry expression on her face appeared. She called the cop: Are you the officer in charge? I’m Nadine Dettwiler, Sophie Dettwiler’s daughter. I came as soon as I could. Where’s my mother?

The officer tried to tell her as gently as possible that her mother had been taken to the hospital. She was slightly taken aback but showed no sign of grief.

The other officer came out of the apartment, followed by Mrs. Herz, who seemed very distressed (certainly more than the daughter, I thought!). She was holding in her arms Mrs. Dettwiler’s longhaired dachshund Dulce.

Phew! I need to stop barking, or I’ll get a sore throat! Gosh these people are slow! Took me ever so long to get Ma Herz’s attention! Oh, hi Alex! What are you doing here? Did you see how high I am?

The little dog let out a small woof when she saw me, and then she was quiet. But as soon as she saw Nadine Dettwiler, she started barking again. It seemed quite obvious to me that the small creature was trying to communicate with her mistress’ daughter.

Here’s Nadine… Nadine! Nadine! Your mum was attacked! Sorry, I wasn’t able to defend her, but I did call for help!"

Nadine just wrinkled her nose and looked at the dog with dismay and annoyance: Oh no, that dog! What am I going to do with it while my mother’s in the hospital?

We exchanged looks with Mrs. Herz and she clutched Dulce closer to her, in a protective gesture. An idea was taking root into my head as I watched Nadine charging into the apartment to see what had been stolen.

I stayed on the landing with Mrs. Herz, all the while scratching Dulce’s chin. The dog knew me quite well, as Mrs. Dettwiler dropped by from time to time at Tate and was a good customer: we also met in the building sometimes when I picked up my mail or took out the garbage. Mrs. Herz explained that it was Dulce’s nonstop barking that had alerted her that there was something wrong next door. As soon as she had crossed the landing she’d noticed the broken lock. She’d pushed the door open and immediately seen poor Mrs. Dettwiler lying on the floor, a nasty gash across her forehead. Dulce was barking like mad and ran to her, trying to drag her towards her mistress.

After she called 911, Mrs. Herz had tried to dab some water on the old lady’s face: Mrs. Dettwiler had been breathing raggedly and was dreadfully pale. The paramedics arrived just before the police.

Nadine came out of the apartment, talking on her cell phone. It looked as though she was calling the hospital. Mrs. Herz went closer to her, still holding the little dog. Nadine hung up and turned to her.

I watched as she talked to the neighbor. Apparently, Dulce’s future was being discussed. I overheard Mrs. Herz saying she would come twice a day to walk and feed the little dog. I went over to Mrs. Herz and asked her: So, what is going to happen to Dulce? Mrs. Herz shook her head. She was still holding the small creature in her arms. Dulce seemed quite content there: she had settled down happily and obviously enjoyed her high vantage point. It gave her a view she rarely enjoyed and she watched everything around her with great interest. I scratched her behind one furry ear: while Mrs. Herz went on talking, I was thinking furiously.

I wanted to get a dog: not only for my own safety, but also for the company. I had to admit I sometimes felt a bit lonely in the evenings in my apartment. Maybe even lonelier because I was in a large building and there were so many unknown people around. When I saw my neighbors taking out their impeccably groomed dogs for a walk and saw the complicity they seemed to share, I sometimes felt a small twinge of jealousy.

My building accepted dogs, with, of course, some strict rules. I thought that I could take Dulce on trial, while Mrs. Dettwiler was away. When the hospital released her, I could return the little dog and, if everything had worked out well, I could get one for myself. I voiced the idea to Mrs. Herz who smiled and said: I’m not so sure, Alex: on the one hand, it would be great for Dulce to be in a nice home while Mrs. Dettwiler is in hospital. But what if you discover that you don’t really want a dog? That you don’t have the time or patience to look after her?

I shrugged: Then it’s back to plan A. She goes back to Mrs. Dettwiler’s apartment and we take turns walking and feeding her. Mrs. Herz shook her head: There is another problem: you have never had a dog, so you don’t know what it’s like. But you might become so attached to this little bundle of love, that you could find it heartbreaking to return her to her owner! Dulce was following the conversation, looking from one to the other. It seemed she had understood the last sentence, as she gave Mrs. Herz’s face a very small and discreet lick.

See how lovable I am!

I laughed: "She really is wonderful. But I’m sure even when Mrs. Dettwiler comes back I’ll see plenty of her. I mean, this is where I spend most of my day and I see them all the time. Besides, Mrs. Dettwiler might need help taking care of Dulce when she comes back: she’ll probably need some time to recover completely.

Neither of us said aloud what worried us: that Mrs. Dettwiler might never recover, and never come back. Mrs. Herz thought about my proposal, obviously reluctant to let go of Dulce. In the end she said: I would take her home if I could. But with Teresa and Paco it’s impossible. I nodded: Teresa and Paco were Mrs. Herz’s Persian cats. Two large and ferocious beasts, that had the great advantage of keeping the building’s rodent population in check. But they would certainly not take kindly to the arrival of a small canine visitor. And Dulce weighed less than any of them: they would make mincemeat of her in no time. Mrs. Herz seemed to come to a decision: Let’s ask Nadine.

She went over to Nadine Dettwiler, who was giving her contact details to the detective, and asked her if she agreed to let me take Dulce while her mother was in the hospital. Nadine shrugged, without even looking at us and said she didn’t care. She said we might as well take the dog’s stuff, which would mean less things getting in her way. I went into the living room to get Dulce’s bed. I had a pretty strong feeling though, that the dog usually slept on her mistress’ bed. I went into the kitchen and took a look around. In the end, I decided I would buy Dulce some new things, so that she would find everything in place when she came back. Plus, it would annoy the unpleasant Nadine. I noted on my iPhone the brands of food Dulce ate, took a small quantity of dry food in a plastic bag, and then came out to get her from Mrs. Herz.

Mrs. Herz had put her down on the floor, and Dulce sat expectantly, waiting to see what would happen next. Although she wasn’t with her mistress, she was surrounded by people she knew and liked, so she wasn’t too worried. I put her on her leash and prepared to go downstairs. Mrs. Herz bent down, and taking the little dog’s face in her hands said: Dulce, you’ll be OK and so will your mistress! She kissed her and watched as we walked down the stairs, the little dog bounding after me, turning one last time to look at Mrs. Herz.

"Bye Ma Herz! Thanks for everything!"

As I went downstairs I looked at my watch: I was quite late. Tate was supposed to open at two thirty and it was almost three. I arranged Dulce’s bed in the back of the shop, found two bowls in which I put water and some dry food. Dulce came to inspect the offerings and then went on a tour of the premises.

"Hm. Got my bed, kibble and water: now I have to take a look around the place, find out where the enemy might come from, since I suppose I’ve got to watch this place, now."

Meanwhile, I unlocked the front door. I was dismayed to see there was a customer stamping her feet in front of the door, looking quite impatient. I opened to let the woman in, excusing myself for being late. The woman was dismissive and stepped in. Dulce, who took her duties seriously, ran up to her, barking.

"Hey, you! What do you want? This is Alex’ house, you can’t just barge in like this!"

My heart sank: this wouldn’t work. If she started barking at every customer, there soon wouldn’t be any left. I tried to restrain the small dog, telling her to shut up and was surprised when the woman’s sour expression changed to a big smile when she saw Dulce.

She exclaimed: What a lovely baby! She’s beautiful! How old is she? She bent down to tickle Dulce under the chin. Dulce, who considered she had done her duty as a watchdog, was now on her back, enjoying a tummy rub from the lady.

"I’m sorry that I barked at you, lady, but you know, I was just doing my job. Can you please scratch just a bit higher, under my pawpit?"

I answered: She’s eight months old: I’m taking care of her for her mistress, who was attacked this morning. I added, apologetically: That’s why I was a bit late opening this afternoon. The customer smiled: That’s quite alright, I understand. I let out a small sigh of relief, as the woman started looking through some costume jewelry.

My gallery is located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, on Lexington Avenue. It reflects the personality of its owner, never giving in to fashions or trends, exhibiting only artists whose work I personally enjoy. It also carries a lot of art related articles, costume and real jewelry, books, small objects like mugs or T-shirts. It’s neat, airy, uncluttered and pleasant. My friends keep on telling me to give the gallery a more defined identity, to stick to a style. I’m sure they are right and that it might work better if I was selling only one art movement. But I make enough money to live comfortably with what the gallery sells and I enjoy the variety.

Looking around me and thinking of my friends’ advice, I sighed. They were right, like they were right in telling me I should lose some weight and do some exercise. I furtively looked at myself in the mirror. The only word that describes me accurately is plump. No one would call me fat: I’m just…pleasantly plump. Which, I thought, explained the emptiness of my love life. Dulce came and gave me a small push with her nose, demanding my attention. I smiled: I didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

I took care of my customer, who in the end bought two pairs of earrings. I was sure it was Dulce’s presence that had swayed the woman to buy. She had walked in with the air of someone who is just looking. After five years as a retailer, I knew exactly who was a potential buyer and who was just a looker. Dulce had apparently changed that. I bent down and patted the little dog. I said: We’ll go and get you some food and toys at lunchtime Dulce wagged her tail and gave a muffled bark.

"Sounds like a great plan, Alex! I like it!"

The morning went on as usual: a few customers came in and I made some sales. I noticed that Dulce always raised her head and barked when someone came in. As soon as I greeted the person Dulce stopped barking and wagged her tail. But she remained alert, keenly watching the intruders and ready to jump at them at the slightest sign that they might be a danger to me. It wasn’t a perfect situation and I wondered how to train the dog to react in a more friendly way with my customers.

CHAPTER II

At lunchtime I closed the gallery and went down to a pet shop to buy Dulce some equipment and food. I felt like a young mother buying stuff for her newborn! I listened carefully to the saleswoman’s advice about what brand of food to give the dog, and ended up with two huge bags of dry food. Dulce also got a bagful of toys and a brand new leash, as the one she had been wearing was frayed and chewed. We then went to have lunch on the terrace of a café in the neighborhood. Dulce was brought a bowl of fresh water and I was amused to see how much attention the dachshund attracted.

I finally had time to observe the little dog quietly. When we had gone to the pet shop to buy her stuff, I couldn’t help noticing how much handsomer Dulce was compared to the other doxies. She had a beautiful caramel coat, and the tips of her ears and tail were marked in black. She still had traces of her baby’s black mask, which would be totally gone within a few weeks. She was very very furry, in fact much more so than any doxie I had ever seen and was extremely vivacious. But her main attraction was her expressive face: she didn’t just stare in front of her, like many dogs do, or raise her ears when another dog passed. Her ears were constantly in motion and her sparkling eyes followed everything. She was extremely curious and from time to time commented on something with a small bark.

Looking at her, I reflected there was more intelligence in her small furry face than in many people I knew. Dulce gave a discreet snort, as if to say Of course. I smiled and went on with my lunch. Dulce watched me attentively, wondering if some food would come her way. But she didn’t beg or bark: she just sat, quite dignified. I had been admonished by the woman at the pet shop never to give her anything at the table and I intended to follow her advice. I sat back, enjoying the June sunshine and smiling as person after person exclaimed on Dulce’s beauty and stopped to pat or talk to her. As I finished my delicious lemon pie, I thought I would drop by a bookstore to find some literature on the care of dogs, and dachshunds in particular.

By the time I returned to Tate, I was panting: I was carrying an impressive number of bags, containing various dog paraphernalia, dog food, dog clothes, dog beds and dog books. Dulce was straining at her leash and tried to go to the building’s door instead of the shop. I felt sorry for her: Dulce wanted to see her mistress. I had to pull her to come into the shop and I noticed that the little dog was a little less perky than usual.

"Hey, Alex! Thanks for the walk and everything, but I’ve got to go home, now! Mrs. D. must be waiting for me…"

I spent the afternoon taking care of customers and reading about dachshunds. I discovered I had taken on the king of dogs, one of the smartest breeds and among the most difficult to train. I also found out with dismay that, as a rule, you were trained by a doxie, rather than the opposite. As I looked at the small fur ball rolled up in her bed, I wondered how such a small creature could take the upper paw. I suspected that I would soon find out: under that adorable exterior lurked an iron personality, which would get its way, no matter what.

At closing time I started gathering Dulce’s things to go home. Again, as we walked out, the little dog looked longingly towards the building door. I sighed and we walked off to Second Avenue, where I live in a high-rise building on the corner of 79th street. After she had looked back once or twice at her building, Dulce seemed to shrug it off and trotted happily next to me.

"We’re not going home yet? Oh well…I guess I have to be patient. This is a new